


Starsky & Hutch Vs the Monster Bug

by rosa_himmelblau



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 13:29:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19395118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: First Starsky got the flu.





	Starsky & Hutch Vs the Monster Bug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [April_Valentine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/gifts).



Hutch lay on the sofa like a ragdoll thrown there by a bored child. He wore a dirty T-shirt, relatively clean blue boxers—he’d changed those, a bathrobe that had come open and was now splayed around him like a dingy aureole, and one sock. Starsky, lying on the floor next to the sofa, was similarly attired, only he had both his socks. He stared up at Hutch’s feet, which dangled off the arm of the sofa. Where had he lost his sock? How had he lost his sock? Starsky didn’t really care, but he was too tired to sleep, and far too tired to think about anything of importance.

Hutch groaned.

Starsky reached out, found the bucket, and silently held it so it was within reach, but Hutch didn’t take it. Instead, he turned over, his face buried in the back of the sofa.

Starsky put the bucket down. He debated telling Hutch he should have just stayed in bed, but that would take too much effort. Even thinking about it was requiring more than he had to give because “See?” was as far as he was getting.

He rolled over too, his back to the sofa. Now he was looking under the bookcase. It needed dusting.

Hutch shifted, made a sound that didn’t sound like the prelude to puking.

“Ginger ale?” Starsky asked. He was getting pretty good at deciphering his partner’s noises. Hutch made a sound that sounded affirmative. “You sure?” Starsky asked, because if Hutch said no, he wouldn’t have to drag himself up and make the grueling journey to the kitchen where the ginger ale and ice were, not to mention the glasses. There was a carton by the door, but if he tried to pawn off a room temperature can on his sick partner, there’d be hell to pay. Not right away, but he’d hear about it for all eternity.

“Thirsty,” Hutch muttered into the sofa.

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed. “Gimme a minute.” He lay there, thinking forcefully positive thoughts about getting upright. He’d done this before, so he knew it wasn’t impossible, standing, walking. He did it all the time, although usually it wasn’t after two days of being brutally sick. Part one of this horrible flu was diarrhea. Part two—which started before part one was finished—was vomiting. And then came part three: a headache it seemed the only cure for was a guillotine. With his stomach empty, and still delicate from the last forty-eight hours, Starsky was afraid to take aspirin. That left suffering.

Hutch had been at a conference when this monster bug struck Starsky, and only got home as the second part was subsiding. Starsky didn’t begrudge him not being there to take care of him, he really didn’t. Only Hutch came home with stories of how other attendees were stricken with the same symptoms—he even went off on a tangent about how weird it was, this was not the natural order of a stomach virus, it was backwards. Starsky didn't need him to tell him he was going to have a killer headache; he was already getting it.

And then Hutch puked into his open suitcase, which was laying on the bed.

If he’d felt even slightly better, Starsky would have made a joke about what a multitasker his partner was, doing parts one and two simultaneously. Only the stench of the vomit gave him the dry heaves, so instead he rushed to the bathroom to let his body pretend to throw up in the sink while Hutch hogged the toilet.

Starsky managed to drag the suitcase to the back door and throw it outside, just to get rid of the smell. Then he collapsed on the bed next to his partner.

At some point, Hutch got out of most of his clothes. It was an arduous process that exhausted Starsky just to watch.

Starsky had no idea how long they lay there. How long he lay there; Hutch was making hourly trips to the bathroom. It got dark. It got light again. Starsky brought them both ginger ale. As the one not actively evacuating his digestive system, he was designated the healthier of the two. Hutch threw up his.

Finally, Hutch insisted he wanted to lie on the sofa for a while. Starsky ignored him as he dragged himself to the living room, but then he got lonely. There was no room on the sofa, so he stretched out on the floor, reflecting that he should have brought his pillow instead of the puke bucket. On the other hand, he'd rather lie with his head on the floor than have Hutch vomit on his feet.

“Conference?” Starsky asked.

“OK,” Hutch said. “Petrie and Peterson.”

Petrie—pronounced with a long e—and Peterson were partners, and everybody joked about their names.

“Wassat the highlight?”

“Yeah.”

In other words, he hadn’t missed anything.

Then, “Shrimp.” And he made a gagging sound.

Starsky offered the bucket and tried not to hear. Hutch wouldn’t be eating shrimp for a good long while after this. He was glad he hadn’t gone.

“Paperboy,” Starsky said. They’d been having a problem with the kid; he was hiding the paper when he delivered it, then acting like they were morons when they couldn’t find it.

“Catch him?” Hutch asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.”

Starsky sighed, heaved himself up off the floor, and staggered to the kitchen for the ginger ale. Maybe he’d make a can of chicken soup while he was out there, if he could stand up long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> My friend, April Valentine, got the flu, so I wrote her a comfort story.


End file.
